The Writing on the Wall

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘Åsa! I’d never have thought so.’

  ‘No. Well, that was all there was, actually. Unless you’ve thought of something else?’

  ‘No, unfortunately not.’

  ‘I’d thought of calling in at the school tomorrow, in fact. Could I pop by to collect the list while I’m up there?’

  ‘I could make sure I’m in. About what time?’

  ‘Sometime between ten and twelve?’

  ‘Fine.’ She stood there with one hand on the door catch. With the other she grasped my shoulder. ‘I hope you find her!’

  ‘So do I.’

  She opened the door, and then she gave me a faint smile before disappearing back into the house.

  I found my own way back to the car and drove home.

  ♦

  Thomas rang at about half past eight asking whether he and Mari could call by on their way down to the station.

  That gave us barely an hour; hardly time for a cup of tea and a glass of beer together. We didn’t mention the funeral or Stavanger at all. I didn’t know how much Beate had told them of her plans.

  Afterwards I walked down with them and stood on the platform chatting until the train was just about to leave. When the light-brown sleeping car began to move and slid slowly past me they bent down to the window and waved.

  As I left the station, I passed a group of teenage girls walking through the waiting room each clutching a bottle of Coke, a cigarette dangling from their mouths. The way at least two of them were walking suggested they’d mixed the Coke with something much stronger.

  Children come and go. Before you know where you are they’ve grown up and flown the nest. Some over a period of time: others in the blink of an eye. Some take the train to the capital: others just take the bus into town. But the general direction is the same. They go away, and the parents are left behind wondering what actually happened. Or they contact someone like me to find out why.

  * Translator’s note: In Norwegian, ‘varg’ means ‘woIf’ as well as ‘miscreant’ or ‘culprit’. There is also a pun on his full name in Norwegian: Varg Veum as the expression ‘varg i veum’ means ‘persona non grata’ ‘outlaw’ or ‘pariah’.

  Four

  THE NEXT DAY there was a sharp frost in the air, greeting you first thing with a cold damp embrace.

  The car had scarcely had time to get properly warmed up before I parked at Nattland School and stepped out. The squat school building stood at the end of the narrow valley linking Sædalen to Sandalsbotn, and February had etched its black and white runes into the steep slope opposite. The roads up here had names like Mars Way and Mercury Way as though they were expecting visitors from another planet in the solar system and had done all they could to make them feel at home.

  It was break-time, and in the playground it was easy to tell the primary from the secondary school pupils. The former were absorbed in games; the latter prowled about circling one another, the girls arm-in-arm, the boys with their hands thrust as deep as possible into their pockets.

  I found my way to the teachers’ common room and enquired after Helene Sandal.

  A brunette in her thirties, her face slightly marked by acne, wearing oval glasses, a red sweater and jeans, came out to the door.

  I introduced myself and told her what it was about.

  She nodded solemnly. ‘Come on in.’ She glanced in through an open door leading into a small office. ‘We can go in here.’

  The office contained a desk, two chairs and a phone. Beside the desk stood a bundle of about thirty exercise books for marking.

  ‘It’s Torild’s mother who’s hired me,’ I explained.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘My background’s in child care, so I’ve been involved in cases of this kind before.’

  She glanced at the clock. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘First, I’d like your opinion of Torild, as a pupil and as – a person.’

  She pursed her lips indicating that she was thinking about it. ‘Well, she’s changed.’

  ‘How long have you been her form teacher?’

  ‘Since Class 7. Nearly three years.’

  ‘And …’

  ‘It’s an important time in a young person’s life, of course. You know this as well as I do. But …’ She looked at me, hesitating. ‘I don’t know if Mrs Skagestøl told you about the situation at home?’

  ‘Yes, she did. I know about it. Was Torild affected by it?’

  ‘It’s rather hard to say. I did have the feeling she was on the slippery slope before this happened.’

  ‘What do you mean by on the slippery slope exactly?’

  ‘Well, er … when she came into Class 7 she was just an ordinary twelve-year-old girl, in the upper half of the class academically, no doubt about that, cheerful and happy – as I said, absolutely normal. In Class 8 … It’s quite a tricky transition. That’s the year when kids with a tendency to get fed up of school do so with a vengeance. Primary school is behind them for good. The teachers demand more of them. But at the same time, there aren’t really any important exams, and the end of Class 9, when they’re fourteen or fifteen, seems so far away. I don’t mean to say that Torild herself was fed up of school. She did her homework conscientiously, the written work at least. I had the impression they kept a good eye on her at home. But her oral work sometimes left a bit to be desired. What was more worrying was the impression that she – how shall I put it? – switched off? She was inattentive in class, and she … Often I could tell from the look in her eyes that she was miles away.’ She glanced out of the window. ‘She would just sit there, looking out of the window.’

  I followed her gaze. The trees in the valley leading down towards Sandalen were white with hoar frost. There was something permanent and unchanging about the view as though time had stopped and the frost would stay forever.

  ‘I suppose you’re all trained in … Did you have the impression she was taking drugs?’

  She nodded gently. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out.’

  ‘Did you inform her parents about it?’

  ‘Yes. I had a talk with her mother.’

  ‘Not with her father?’

  ‘No. He couldn’t spare the time.’

  ‘Did anything change afterwards?’

  ‘Things improved for a bit, maybe. She seemed to pull herself together. But then … it started again.’

  ‘And did you have another word with her parents?’

  ‘Yes, but … This time only by phone. After all, there’s a limit to how much time I can give to each pupil. There are others, for example, who have far more problems with their schoolwork. And there are others with shaky family situations. We have a few immigrant children, and a child who’s physically disabled but integrated. In other words …’

  A school bell rang. She stood up. ‘I have to go now. Was there anything else?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Can you spare me a few more minutes?’

  ‘OK, then.’ She remained standing, to indicate that she couldn’t spare many minutes.

  ‘I just wanted to know … Did she have any close friends, any who might have influenced her; were there others you noticed with the same attitude?’

  Her face hardened slightly. ‘I can’t be as explicit about others without their parents’ permission.’

  ‘I’ve already talked to Åsa Furebø. I got the impression they knocked about together a lot.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right, I think.’

  ‘Were there other girls?’

  ‘Astrid, perhaps. Astrid Nikolaisen.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘As I said, I can’t … But …’ She pointed at her wristwatch. ‘Must dash.’

  ‘Would it be possible for you to get Åsa and Astrid down here? So I could talk to them?’

  ‘Åsa, maybe. Astrid’s absent today.’

  ‘Oh? Has she been absent for a few days?’

  ‘Yesterday as well. All this week,’ she said dryly.

  ‘Torild wasn’t at school e
ither the day she disappeared. Was that something that happened often?’

  ‘Sometimes. But she always brought a note afterwards.’ With a bitter smile she added: ‘But it turned out they were forged, according to what I’ve just heard.’

  ‘I see. Is it OK for me to use this office?’

  She looked around. ‘If no one else is using it … Sure, all right. If you hang on, I’ll get Åsa to come along.’ With a quick nod, she left.

  I stood waiting in the doorway.

  The teachers’ common room was practically empty. In the corner of a sofa sat a young man in a flannel check shirt and brown cords reading Dagen, a daily. On the tables lay a scattering of periodicals and a few more daily newspapers. The tables were decorated with small embroidered runners with an unlit square candle in the middle, and at the corner of one of them stood a hastily abandoned cup of coffee. For all I knew it might be Helene Sandal’s.

  The man reading the Christian daily scowled in my direction as though suspecting I might be a Russian secret agent who had sneaked into the school, pockets stuffed with condoms to start an all-out campaign targeted at the young impressionable souls.

  There was a knock, the door leading into the corridor opened, and Åsa came in, her face full of curiosity. When she saw who it was, she couldn’t conceal her disappointment.

  ‘Hello again, Åsa!’ I said with affected cheerfulness like the social worker I had once been.

  She glanced at the teacher in the corner as though hoping he might release her from this embarrassing situation.

  ‘I was thinking … There were perhaps a few things it might be easier for you to talk about without your parents present.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Come on in here – we can sit down …’

  ‘Can’t I refuse?’

  I paused before replying. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘Well, er …’

  ‘Do you have anything to hide, then?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You don’t? Could there be any other reason for not answering my questions?’

  She flopped down in the chair and sat there slouching, half turned away, which was certainly not going to do her back any good if it became a habit.

  ‘I’m thinking of – what I asked you yesterday. You can be frank with me, Åsa. I won’t repeat a word of it to your parents. All I need is information that can help me find out what’s happened to Torild.’

  She shot me a hostile look. ‘Oh really?’

  ‘So … When did you last see her?’

  She sat there open-mouthed. ‘When did I see her last? – It was the day we … She …’ She changed her mind.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The day before she went missing.’

  ‘Last Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I think.’

  ‘Where was it you saw her?’

  ‘Where? How do you mean?’

  ‘OK, let me put it like this, then … What were the two of you doing?’

  She shrugged. ‘We – went into town. Wandered about like we usually do.’ ‘I see. Do you remember where you went?’

  ‘Mm, no … Nowhere in particular.’

  ‘Not to the cinema?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you go for a Coke somewhere?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘If you went for a Coke, where might that have been?’

  ‘I don’t know … Burger King … Or some other snack bar.’

  ‘But you can’t remember where it was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were there just you two or were other people there?’

  ‘Other people.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Was Astrid there?’

  ‘Astrid Nikolaisen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Might have been.’

  ‘Did you two spend a lot of time with her?’

  ‘A lot of time?’

  ‘Why do you want to know? Has Helene said something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘Do you know why Astrid isn’t at school today?’

  She snickered suddenly. ‘It’s not the first time.’

  ‘The first time what?’

  ‘She comes to school when it suits her.’

  ‘Oh really? I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t!’

  ‘Maybe not. What is it I don’t see, then?’

  She looked at me defiantly, without answering.

  ‘Did you two go home together? You and Torild, I mean.’

  ‘No, we … I went home earlier.’

  ‘Was there a time you were supposed to be back by?’

  ‘Yes. Ten-thirty.’

  ‘And what did she do then?’

  ‘I don’t kn … I don’t remember.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘And are you sure it was Wednesday and not – Thursday?’

  ‘Y-yes, I think so’, she said, glancing away.

  I tried another tack. ‘That business with the leather jacket, that your father –’

  ‘Well, what about it?’

  ‘Was it one you’d – stolen?’

  Her gaze looked shifty, and her lips moved wordlessly as though rehearsing what she was going to say. Finally all she said was: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was that something you lot were in the habit of doing?’

  ‘No! Not expensive stuff like that anyway.’

  ‘Just pilfering?’

  ‘Doesn’t everybody do that?’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Christ, are you thick or something? If you heard – !’

  ‘What happened at home?’

  ‘Oh … I was daft enough to take it home. I could always have left it …’

  ‘Left it?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Where?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘OK. So your parents found out about it. And then …’

  She hesitated. ‘My dad … he went crazy. Said I had to take it back, that we had to go back to that shop and tell them what I’d done, and then … Well, that’s what we did.’

  ‘Which shop was it?’

  ‘The Leather Centre.’

  ‘And he bought you a new one?’

  She nodded. ‘Mm.’

  ‘As a sort of reward?’

  ‘Yes, just imagine! A reward for going along with him of my own free will, for telling what happened, and because he … he understood that I needed one, I suppose!’

  ‘A new leather jacket?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘I see …’

  ‘Oh yeah – ?’ But this time she cut herself off. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  I paused, and she looked at me impatiently. ‘I have to get back to my lesson!’

  I gave a faint smile as though it was the first time I’d heard a secondary school pupil say this. ‘!t was Thursday, wasn’t it? The last time you saw her.’

  She blushed. ‘Must have been, I suppose!’ She stood up and walked towards the door. Without turning around she added: ‘If you say so!’

  She tried to slam the door behind her, but its hinges were too stiff. It just slid to with a quiet sigh like a form teacher full of resignation.

  Five

  SIDSEL SKAGESTØL opened the door quickly as though thinking it was Torild who had rung the bell.

  When she saw who it was, she stepped aside. ‘Come in.’ She looked at me questioningly. ‘You haven’t …?’

  ‘No, alas. Still nothing concrete. I –’

  ‘Oh my God, I’m so scared, Veum! Where can she be?’

  ‘That’s what we must try and find out.’

  ‘Yes … Of course. Forgive me.’

  ‘I understand you completely. Don’t get me wrong.’

  She was wearing jeans and a white blouse, only the collar and cuffs visible under the ribbed blue woollen sweater. Her hair was light and fluffy as
though she’d just washed and blow-dried it, and she moved across the floor with a sort of girlish elegance, a mixture of shyness and sensuality.

  She pointed to a coat rack. ‘You can hang your coat up there.’

  I did as she said, followed her through the L- shaped hall, past the door into the kitchen, which looked out onto the back of the house, and came into a large, open-plan living room as luxuriously furnished as a showroom in a furniture store. A plum-coloured leather suite occupied the space in front of the picture windows facing south and east, while a dining table and chairs in dark-brown oak was the focal point at the other end of the room, just in front of the door to the kitchen. In the centre of the room there was also an L- shaped sofa and three chairs, all in dark-green material, set around a low black coffee table. The fact that the room didn’t seem too full gives some indication of its size, and there was still plenty of floor space for the children to play. Just now the place was as spick-and-span as an operating theatre.

  Cheerful morning sounds poured forth from a radio in the centre of a large dark wall unit. She had set the coffee table for two. ‘I’ve made a couple of sandwiches, and the kettle is on. I’m just going to make the coffee, so … if you’d like some?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘There are – some papers …’ She pointed to the two Bergen newspapers that lay folded up beside the white coffee service as though she was my secretary and had prepared lunch for the boss.

  I leafed through one of the papers, while she was in the kitchen making the coffee. There had been a drugs raid in Møhlenpris, and two fifteen-year-olds had robbed a post office in Åsane at three-thirty the previous day. The raid had resulted in ten people being charged with possession of various amounts of drugs, mainly hash and tablets. The two fifteen-year-olds had been arrested an hour and a half later, having spent only eighty kroner on hamburgers and Cokes at a roadside café. Two new cases of AIDS had been registered in Bergen over the previous year, both in drug circles, and the health authorities stressed that heterosexuals had no cause to feel safer than homosexuals on that score.

  So the cartoons were a lot more fun.

  Sidsel Skagestøl came back in carrying a white coffee pot in one hand and a small dish with open sandwiches in the other. She put the dish down and poured out coffee for us both after I’d declined the offer of brandy in mine.